Not Enough Left
by LadyShada
Summary: "Look, you know me." Dean turned in a small circle, continuing to look up. "I don't do this unless I'm out options and I need to. And right now...man, I really need to." Immediately following his mother's memorial, Dean leaves the bunker and takes off on his own. Missing scene, Season 14.19, "Jack in the Box".


It was easy, Dean Winchester thought to himself. Easy to brush off Sam's sappy invitation to "talk about Mom" and dismiss other-Bobby's offer for a drink. Easy to table the Jack discussion and ignore Cass' damned annoying pitiful stare. Easy to load up the green cooler with a six pack from the spare fridge in the garage and fire up that sweet, purring engine.

Once behind the wheel, it was even easy to believe that it was just a drive. Just a chance to feel the breeze weave through his fingers as he dangled his arm out the window, watching the setting sun bounce splashes of orange, red, and yellow along the sleek, black horizon of the Impala's hood. It was even easy to smile - right then, in that moment. He found that amusing, so he kept at it and turned up the volume as he drove. Music in his ears. Baby in his hands. Beer in the back. It all felt normal.

Dean snorted lightly, and the smile faded a touch. All right, maybe not "normal". He and Sam didn't get to have a normal - not by the world's standard, anyway. It wasn't for lack of trying. Something just always came along and dug its fingers, claws, knives, or meat hooks into their flesh and dragged them back to hell. Again. Sometimes literally.

There was a low rumble, deep and distant, that moved up from the ground and rose to cover the guitar riff filtering through the speakers. Dean shifted his gaze to check the side view mirror. Behind him, the long stretch of aging asphalt and faded yellow lines spanned the distance between the Impala and the darkening sky. He was beating the storm for now, but those heavy, grey clouds rolled tirelessly onward no matter how far or fast he drove. It wouldn't be long before they caught up. It never was.

But for now, the sun kept grinding to push that last bit of light into the world, refusing to stop until the deep blue of night swallowed it up and the storm came in. So he turned his eyes back to the road - back to the sun - and kept right on going.

When the tape of the cassette pulled taut, the music fell silent, replaced by the sudden crunch of gravel under the tires. Dean broke his trance, blinking himself back to reality. He didn't remember turning the wheel and abandoning the main drag for the partially overgrown side road. He sure as hell didn't remember the sun disappearing or the sky going dark. The trees on either side of him shook as the wind kicked the branches into a frantic dance, and Dean leaned over to crank the window up as another wave of thunder rumbled along the ground.

The first few raindrops pelted the windshield as he pulled off into a clearing and put the car in park. His thumb affectionately tapped the steering wheel as the engine went silent with the turn of the key. It was quiet, the rain providing the only sound as it started to drum a soft base line against the roof. Stretching his arm over the seat, Dean threw open the cooler and pulled out a beer, glancing briefly at the cardboard file box sitting beside it. He paused, considering, and then shifted around to pull the lid off the file box.

Dean turned back around with the beer in one hand and his family's hunting journal in the other. He pressed his palm against the familiar brown leather - aged, rough, and weathered under calloused fingertips. He couldn't just call it "Dad's journal" anymore. His and Sam's grimy fingerprints were scattered throughout the pages. And little traces of Mom were all over the thing - notes in the margins of old entries, mission logs in her own handwriting, small doodles when she got bored with research. Dean huffed a small chuckle. Guess it was true, in a way; he really was his mother's son.

He cracked open the beer and brought it to his lips. And stopped. The back of his throat itched and then pinched itself tight. Dean swallowed hard to clear it which only made it worse. His chest caught in a vice - at least that's what it felt like - and he coughed once, hard enough that hot tears pricked his eyes. He fought to inhale, to fill his lungs, to just goddamn _breathe_, but the confines of his rib cage restrained him. Closing in, holding on, keeping him there_ \- alone_ \- gasping and coughing and gasping again.

Until finally it quieted. The itch disappeared, the muscles relaxed, and his breath fell into a quiet rhythm. But his eyes still burned like hellfire. Dean rubbed at them and pinched the bridge of his nose. "C'mon, really?" he murmured to himself, his voice hoarse and scratchy. He couldn't even drink a beer right. Setting the bottle aside, he dragged both hands over his tear-stained face before wiping them dry with one agitated sweep on his jeans.

"Fine," he said to no one. "Okay, so, no drink." He nixed the idea with an unnecessary wave of his hand, letting his palm fall flat against the journal on his leg. He rubbed his thumb thoughtfully along the edge of the strap, and he looked down at the book. So much of his life was right there, wrapped up in that binding, poured into those pages. Everything he hated. Everything he loved. Everything he'd won.

Everyone he'd lost.

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head briefly, continuing to steady his breath. He hadn't come out here to drink anyway - no matter what he told Sam and the others. Maybe it was best to just get this over with before he questioned why in the hell he thought it was such a good idea in the first place.

"Okay, so-" Dean started but stopped when his voice faltered. He bit his bottom lip, ran his tongue over the top, and swallowed tightly. With a grunt and a cough, he dropped his gaze back to the journal. This was stupid. His chest hurt. His head throbbed. It was frickin' dark outside. It was raining. He should be at home with Cass and Sammy and Mom and Jack.

Except that wasn't going to happen anymore.

Jack was gone. The kid he'd hated, then feared, and then - despite his best efforts - loved. From teaching him how to hunt to teaching him how to drive, Dean couldn't imagine _not_ having the kid there now. It made his heart ache to think of that last day, fishing on that river bank on of the most beautiful days Dean could bring to memory. He'd been there for that. But when the kid needed him at the end, at his last breath...

It didn't matter. Jack was dead. He'd died the moment they brought him back to life; they just didn't want to admit it. The soulless, heartless, conscious-less thing that killed Mary Winchester was no better than any other typical angel in Dean's book. He didn't even deserve another thought.

But Mary. Mom. Lying there in his arms, motionless. A shell. Nothing else. Not enough left of her to even _try_ to bring her back. Ripped away from him not just once. Once would have been too easy. No, it made a hell of a story to take her twice.

Dean opened his eyes before the tears could fall and reached for the door handle, furiously working at it and failing. He cursed and slammed his palm into the paneling, and the door finally swung open on his last effort. He stepped out into the night, into the rain, and slammed the door behind him. His boots sunk into the muddy ground as he walked back behind the car, moving further into the trees. The rain pricked his cheeks - hard and cold in the crisp night air - and Dean blinked against the discomfort as he looked up into the night sky.

"You listening to me?" Dean shouted up into the dark clouds. "God...Chuck, whatever." The only response was the rain as it slipped along the leaves. Dean turned in a small circle, continuing to look up. He threw his hands out to the side. "Look, you know me. I don't do this unless I'm out of options and I need to. And right now...man, I _really_ need to."

He paused, steeling himself and willing back the lump that was building in his throat. "She's gone," he whispered. "I had her. I lost her once. Then I got her again, and now..."

Dean's voice cracked, and he mentally cursed himself when he felt his eyes start to burn. Shit, really? Now? Here in the damn woods in the dark in the middle of a storm? Why the hell not. That seemed right. That seemed fitting. Either way, it made for a damn good story. It was downright cinematic.

Dean rubbed both hands across his face, wiping away the freezing rain and running them back over his hair as he turned again and looked up.

"And now," he shouted into the sky, "now you're just gonna watch me do this - all over again - like a frickin' rerun on tv? After everything else! Everything we've been through, everything we've done to save...everyone. To save the world - _your_ world!"

Dean dropped his chin to his chest and his voice softened. "I don't want to do it," he said. "I don't want to lose her again. I can't - I won't." He raised his head and his voice with renewed strength and shouted against a rumble of thunder. "So you better get off your divine ass, throw down that pawn shop reject of a guitar, and come down here to talk to me like you give a damn so we can figure this the hell out!"

Dean stopped, his breath ragged, waiting, listening.

"You hear me?"

It was quiet.

Expectedly quiet.

The wind gusted, and his body shook. Might have been from weather. Might have been from anger. Might have been all of it combined. Hell, at this point he wasn't even certain if the things running down his face were tears or freezing raindrops. And he realized it didn't matter one damn bit. Nothing did. Dean curled his fingers into fists and lifted his eyes back up to the sky.

"You know what...screw you! You think this is your world, your creation? You don't take care of it, so you sure as hell don't deserve it. So it's my world now." He pounded a fist against his jacket, droplets of water flying to the sides and up into his face. He ignored all of it. "Mine. Sammy's. Cass'. Mom's. Every hunter out there who risks their life every damn day to save your creation from monsters, from demons. Hell, from your own angels!

His chest heaved once, but Dean pushed the feeling aside and stood as tall as he could. "You don't deserve us. Any of us," he said. "So we're taking it back. It's ours now."

No response. Just rain and wind and thunder and darkness.

Just like he'd expected.

Cold, tired, and done - so done - Dean lowered himself to sit on a fallen tree trunk. And cried. Admitted he was crying. Didn't care he was crying. Because now he knew he was alone - truly alone - and no one would ever see.


End file.
